


Over the Years

by silvergryphon



Series: Black and Gold Verse [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: And about a dozen original clones, Ayliah, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Naroko Chiston - Freeform, OFC - Freeform, but again that's later, loooong way down the line, slow build to pre-relationship, sort of has a Beauty and the Beast air if you tilt your head and squint a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9773168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergryphon/pseuds/silvergryphon
Summary: Over the years, Naroko Chiston has been a part of Anakin Skywalker's life- through the good times and the bad.





	1. Nine Years Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiaryofaWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiaryofaWriter/gifts).



> Anakin Skywalker is nine years old when he first meets Padawan Naroko Chiston.
> 
> I don't own Star Wars. Just Naroko Chiston.

He's nine years old and the Temple is so _big_. He thought he'd been overwhelmed by it the first time but now, coming back from Naboo, it's different. It's bigger, more real, because he knows now that this is where he is to stay, to start his training. It's big, it's peaceful- it's cold.

Not cold on his skin, but cold in his heart. This wasn't a place where passion was encouraged, he sensed that. Detached, is what it was. The peace of being part of the world but not in it, of it.

ObiWan had been whisked off somewhere that morning, leaving him alone until another Padawan- older, taller, his braid trailing down a bit past his chin- finds him and escorts him through one cream-and-beige-and-tawny hall after another, until he leaves him in a room he thinks he recognizes, but it's all cream and beige and tawny too so he can't really tell. He's told to wait.

There's two other beings there, a slender brown-scaled saurian alien with a short stubby beak and a bony crest on her head that looks like a hat, and a girl. She's not quite ObiWan's age, but taller.

Everyone here but Master Yoda was tall, he thought. It wasn't fair.

He hovers nervously just inside the door, not sure if he's supposed to stand or sit. They're both standing, but there are cushions, so maybe-

The girl notices him first, turning towards him. She has a Padawan's braid too, long and glossy black, and currently twined around her fingers as she toyed with it. Her skin is golden, soft against the cloth of her tunic.

And she's _warm_. He can feel emotions swirling around her, quiet, controlled, a gentle dance that doesn't quite hide a sense of quivering anticipation, warm and bright and alive in a way he hasn't felt from most of the other Jedi he'd encountered.

She smiles, dark slanted eyes crinkling with warmth. She's beautiful, he decides. Not as beautiful as Padme. She's not an Angel. She's still a bit gawky after getting her full height, but she is beautiful.

She comes over to him and drops to one knee, the Force smiling with her.

"Hello," she said. There's music in her voice. "I'm Naroko. You must be Anakin."

He nods, and she offers a hand to him. He takes it, and notices that his worries, his fears, all seem to slide away.

"Come wait with us," she said. "ObiWan is finished with his trials. It's just the knighting ceremony left."

She draws him over to one of the cushioned stools and sits with him. The saurian Jedi- she has to be Naroko's Master, he thinks- peers around her student to fix a golden eye on him. The Force is warm around her too, but not nearly to the extent it is around her Padawan. She bobs her head once, voices a soft hoot, then turns back to the door.

He knows ObiWan is coming, not because he senses it himself, but because the Force around Naroko suddenly swirls to life, singing with joy. This earns her a chiding whistle-hoot from her Master but she seems not to care as she gets to her feet. ObiWan is hardly through the door, severed Padawan braid coiled around his fingers, when she's there, throwing her arms around his shoulders and giving him a fierce hug.

He doesn't realize until later that when ObiWan finally let her go and turned to him, telling him that _yes, I will be your Master, Anakin_ , the braid of red-gold hair was no longer in his hand.

 


	2. Eleven Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin is frustrated. Naroko listens.

He's eleven years old and frustrated. Two years he'd spent at the Temple, studying and training. He wants to be out in the galaxy, helping protect people. He wants to prove himself and become a Knight, so that one day soon he can go to Tattooine and free his mom. He's tired of sitting around, listening to ObiWan tell him to sit still and clear his thoughts. He's tired of sitting still, listening to endless lectures on history and protocol. The science classes are interesting, he loves piloting and Astronavigation, and no one in his age group can touch him with a saber.

But he itches for the day he gets to be a _real_ Padawan, out there doing real Jedi things.

He's managed to escape Master ObiWan's clutches and made his way off to the training hall used by some of the Knights. He's frustrated and restless after a history class spent discussing the Hutt criminal empires, and he keeps remembering the fat slug who'd owned him and his mom. Only knowing that ObiWan would have lectured him for it kept him from bursting out _why haven't you stopped them already? Why do you let them keep slaves? Why do you let them hurt people?_ at his teacher. But he's hurt and angry all the same, and so very, very frustrated.

The hall is empty and dim but for flashes of gold light and the hum of a saber, and he creeps along the upper balcony that rings the training area until he can get a better look. Naroko's down there, doing something that looks half dance and half saber forms, moving with slow, easy grace from pose to pose. He's a little startled to realize that no, it's not a dance, it's literally a series of katas all strung together, and worked through at a very slow pace. He can see how she moves from strike to block and back again, dark eyes always closed. Two years has done much to erase the youthful gangliness she'd still had when they'd met, her hair is longer and allowed to grow free of its Padawan cut after her Knighting a year ago.

He wonders if the thin braid of black hair he'd once seen ObiWan pull out of a tiny box of personal belongings and hold in his hands when he'd thought his apprentice was asleep had been hers.

He wonders if she has a thin braid of red-gold hair in a similar tiny box.

The Force is calm around her, with only slow, gentle eddies, and she's so very, very bright within it.

She's meditating, he realized.

He'd had no idea you could meditate while doing lightsaber forms.

Naroko comes to the end of her form, gold-bladed lightsaber held vertically before her in both hands, then switches it off. She opens her eyes and looks up at him.

"Hello Anakin," she calls. "Come and join me?"

Fascinated by what he'd just seen, he hurries down the nearest set of steps and to her side. He still has to crane his neck back a lot to look up at her, but he thinks- maybe- not quite so much as before.

 _What are you doing?_ he wants to ask, but she's dropped to one knee in front of him, eyes searching his face. She feels warm and soft to his senses, the colors of her being more saturated than he feels around most other Jedi, and he wonders why. Why is she different? Why does she have color to her song? He'd learned to feel others, see their presences in the Force, and no one was like her. They were all bright and clear, white and silver and cool blue, the healers adding touches of green, but she had so much more color.

"You're troubled," she said, and he feels a brush of her presence, light and gentle, over his shields, his thoughts. The knots in his chest put there during his awful class squeeze tighter, and he feels anger surge up in him again. She clips her saber to her belt and takes his hands, and it feels like a hug, like a warm blanket wrapping around his shoulders, a little like his mother singing him to sleep on a stormy night.

The words tumble out of him, sharp and angry and frustrated- and not just about his class, but everything. Feeling so lonely among other Padawans, most of whom are older than he is. Feeling like an uneducated bumpkin while sitting in classes with children three and four and five years younger than him. Frustrations with meditation, with sitting still, with not doing anything. Resentment towards the younglings who quietly shun him, for being yet an outsider, an Exception, different, a slave from a dusty ball of rock at the ass-end of the galaxy.

She listens, and when he's out of words she draws him into a hug, rubbing his back and wrapping him in the warm swirls and eddies of her Force presence. It's like the Force itself is hugging him, wrapping him up in comfort and reassurance and steady strength.

"Oh, dear one," she murmurs. "It's so much to deal with, isn't it? So very different."

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, remembering too late that ObiWan would scold him for doing so, and nods.

They talk for a little while. He doesn't want to let go, she's so warm and comforting and peaceful, but when he senses another bright spark of a Force-presence approaching she draws back and rests her hand on his shoulder. The other Knight doesn't seem to pay attention to them as he starts Makashi forms at the other end of the hall, but he'd caught the momentary flicker of tension in Naroko. It smooths out as quick as anything, but she's drawn back a little now there's a witness around.

"Time will help with most of your troubles," she says gently. "Time and patience. You will learn. You will find a place. But for your difficulties meditating... I think I have an idea."

She gestures to a rack that holds spare training sabers and one drifts over to her. Most of the Knights carry their live sabers, the ones with the deadly blades that shear through almost anything, not the harmless training weapons. But the Council had long ago decreed that sparring matches between Knights had to be fought with training sabers. Only the Masters had the skill and control for sparring sessions with live sabers. The training halls, therefore, always had a supply of practice sabers on hand for Knights wanting to spar. She holds it out to him, and he takes it, giving her a puzzled look.

"We're going to see if you take to this sort of meditation," she told him. "It should give you practice in reaching that quiet place in your mind and make it easier for you to meditate the regular way."

That makes sense, and saber training is saber training to his way of thinking. He loves saber training. Surely this will be better than sitting around and trying to empty his head when he just wants to move, to do something.

She teaches him only three forms that afternoon, and he's a bit disappointed when he finds he has to go from one to the next to the next, over and over and over again, an endless repetition of stances as he breathed to her count.

When she finally calls a halt, he realizes he hasn't thought of anything for almost five minutes, and Naroko is smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Anakin is a hyperactive little ball of frustrated feels and lightsaber tai chi is good for meditation.
> 
> Edit: I did a sketch! Find it [here!](http://silvergryphon.tumblr.com/post/157507638966/sketch-for-chapter-2-of-over-the-years-naroko)


	3. Thirteen Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin breaks an arm and Obi-Wan drags him to visit the healers.

He's thirteen years old and he really didn't mean to crash that speeder, Master.

ObiWan's lips are pressed together so tightly they're almost white as he helps his Padawan up the steps and into the Temple and towards the infirmary wing. It seems like a much longer walk than normal, but maybe it's just the broken arm and the tight swirls of frustration and real concern he can sense radiating off of his Master. For once, ObiWan isn't lecturing.

That worries him a bit, actually. He was honestly expecting a lecture.

ObiWan helps him into the infirmary and the Force ripples around him, and he knows his Master is calling someone he has a close bond to.

Naroko is there almost as soon as the ripples still again, in a fawn-colored tunic with a wraparound collar of deep red, hair past her shoulders now and held back in a tail. He's honestly surprised to see any Jedi wearing something that isn't all in shades of brown, but his arm hurts too much to really let him wonder about it.

Naroko, he decides as she lays a hand on his good shoulder and somehow- thank the Force- eases the shrieking pain of his arm, is a Jedi unto herself.

She steers him onto a padded table, and ObiWan helps him get his tunic and shirt off so she can inspect him properly. He's sort of numb now, his vision a bit fuzzy at the edges, and only vaguely notices that his arm is bent in the wrong place at a really funny angle. But Naroko is warm as always, the colors and song of her presence more tightly controlled as she examines his injury, with gentle hands and the Force.

There's no pain as she does- something- and his arm is straightened out again. It's very unsettling, though, to feel the ends of the broken bone grate against each other as they go back into place.

He's pretty sure that if she hadn't numbed the nerves of his arm before setting to work, the pain would have made him pass right out. But there's no pain, and he just sits and watches dazedly, vaguely aware of ObiWan talking as if from a very long distance away.

Naroko lays her hands on his arm again, and this time they are cool. Her power washes over him in a soothing tide, chasing away pain and inflammation, knitting bone and muscle and nerves and blood vessels, the Force around her colored green as she calls on her healing gifts. Then the cool feeling washes over the rest of him. The dizziness and the sick feeling in his stomach ease, and the fuzzy black with the sparks of white and red lights in his vision fade until he can see clearly now.

"There we go, dear one," she murmurs. She gently helps him extend and flex his arm, making him clench and relax his fist, rotate his elbow and shoulder. He does so gingerly at first, but when he feels no pain, just a slight stiffness, he takes to the tests with more confidence.

She nods with approval and smooths his hair back, a gesture he's hard-pressed not to melt into like a lothcat kit. She smiles softly.

"Now off with you both," she says. "And don't you dare try to wriggle out of your physicals next week."

ObiWan sighs and takes his rambunctious Padawan in tow.

"Yes, Naroko," he says. "We'll be there."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that canonically ObiWan has a Mon Cal healer friend named Bant. She's awesome, from what little I remember of her. Naroko's sort of taking that role in this verse.


	4. Fifteen Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan and Anakin get back to Coruscant after a mission. Naroko and her new Padawan welcome them.

He's fifteen years old and he'd never been so glad to see the Temple in his life. Four months on a tour of the dustiest, muddiest, nastiest planets on the Outer Rim, and all he wanted was to get back to the little suite he shared with ObiWan and shower every bit of dirt and slime out of his pores.

When they land at the spaceport and make their way out to one of the massive walkways on this level, he gives the sky an utterly disgusted look. It's raining on this part of Coruscant, and he'd learned quickly that it never rained clean on the capitol of the Republic. Fat drops came down loaded with dust and smog and Force knew what else, leaving dark, greasy spots on his face, his clothing, his gear.

Not what he'd had in mind when he'd said he wanted a shower.

Naroko is there when they get home, a red-skinned Twi'lek girl a couple years younger than him in tow. As the pair take their bags and bustle them off to their suite, he learns the Twi'lek who wore a beaded cord hanging from her headdress in the place of a Padawan braid was Ayliah, Naroko's new Padawan.

He's startled to note that Naroko is barely a head taller than him now.

But she's as warm as ever, wrapping both him and his weary Master in the welcoming swirls of color that is her Force presence. She gets them to their rooms and orders them to wash and change, and oh, the hot water of the refresher's shower unit feels _so. Good._ And there's food and hot, sweetened caf for them when they finish and rejoin the two women, food and caf that isn't from ration packets.

ObiWan looks at the food with dismay at first and asks if Naroko had cooked.

She laughs, warm and musical, and elbows her best friend in the ribs. "No," she tells him. "I did not."

"Thankfully," he hears Ayliah mutter under her breath. He grins and grabs the food. He'd had experience with Naroko's cooking before. Calling it 'terrible' was an understatement. This was clearly not her cooking, and he inhaled it in spite of his Master's admonishments to _slow down, Anakin, it's not going anywhere!_

"I remember you inhaling anything that came your way at that age, dear one," Naroko chides him gently. "Human boys do that."

He senses a ripple in the Force. They're talking to one another in their minds, he can tell, and suddenly ObiWan laughs, the strain of the last few months fading from his face. His Master takes a bowl and starts to eat as well, relaxing in the warmth and peace of _home._

Naroko makes sure he gets enough to eat, and in between bites he talks to Ayliah. She's a healer too, he soon learns, and overjoyed to be apprenticed to one of the best young Healers in the Order. She's sharper-edged than her Master, but she, too, is light and warmth and color in his mind.

He wonders what it is about this line of Masters and Padawans, that makes them sing so bright in the Force, their songs colored with so much feeling.

Either way, it's good to see his Master relax and enjoy himself for once. Naroko is smiling to see them both, and the Temple feels like home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cute fluff. 
> 
> Naroko has always been a horrendous cook. She is many wonderful things but culinarily talented is not one of them. 
> 
> Ayliah is about 13 in this chapter. Anakin is 15, Naroko is 27 and Obi-Wan is 29.


	5. Seventeen Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls need help. Obi-Wan and Anakin fish them out and bring them home.

He's seventeen years old and he kind of likes this whole daring rescue thing.

When he's the daring rescuer, of course. Being the rescuee kind of sucks, really. He's been there. ObiWan's had to drag him out of plenty of trouble.

Now he and ObiWan are dragging Naroko and Ayliah out of trouble. Namely, they are dragging the battered pair into a speeder and getting the hell out of here. ObiWan carries the unconscious Twi'lek in his arms, and he supports Naroko as she limps along on a sprained ankle she hasn't had a chance to heal yet.

She gives him a grateful little smile as he helps her into the backseat, and he is surprised to realize their eyes are on a level now. He isn't certain when that had happened, though he'd been having to look _down_ at ObiWan for a while now. She isn't that much taller than ObiWan, so he guessed he shouldn't be surprised. He gets her settled and helps ObiWan with Ayliah, laying her out so her head rests in her Master's lap. Naroko's hands are on her temples in an instant, sinking into a trance. The Force ripples around her, again the greens coming into it as she shapes her power and pours it into her Padawan.

He pauses a moment too long as he watches her, and by the time he looks up ObiWan is already in the driver's seat and shouting at him to get in. Hastily he scrambles into the speeder, keeping an eye out for pursuers.

ObiWan isn't the mad driver he is, but he gets them well away from the cantina where the fight had broken out in short order, demanding what had possessed Naroko to take her Padawan there. She answers in a low and distant, distracted voice, her attention on Ayliah.

Ayliah has come around by the time they make it back to the Temple, and they get everyone inside without further hassle. As always, he's struck by the difference in how Naroko and Ayliah feel compared to most other Jedi in the Order. Even battered and exhausted and wounded, the Force around them is dappled with warmth and color, an inviting contrast to even the pair of Healers who come to collect the injured pair and escort them away.

He sees his Master is distracted, talking to Naroko in his mind as they make their own way to their quarters so they can start reports. Being a Jedi, he'd learned a long time ago, involved quite a lot of filing reports. He watches ObiWan, the way the Force ripples around him, and is struck by the faint lines of worry creasing his face. Whatever had happened to his friends had been bad.

 _But it's okay, Master_ , he wants to say. _We saved them. We'll always save them. You and me. That's what we do, right?_

He doesn't like thinking of Ayliah, so still and limp sprawled over the seat of the speeder. He doesn't like thinking of Naroko, wounded and so desperate to get her and her Padawan out of a bad situation she doesn't even have time to heal her own injuries.

He'd become a Jedi to save people. That was why most people became Jedi.

It makes him cringe to think of Jedi needing saving.

_But I can save them. I will save them when they need it. I can do that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because bar fights sometimes end badly. Anakin still wants to save everyone.
> 
> A bit less fluffy than the earlier ones, but we get a nice little look at Anakin's core character here.


	6. Nineteen Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin is nineteen when the war begins, and there are many changes. Some things remain the same, though.

He's nineteen years old and in the space of six months his life has completely turned upside down.

There's the war, this horrible awful war that doesn't seem at all inclined to end anytime soon. It's eating systems, eating lives, and even, he's heard the whispers, eating the Jedi way of life.

It's certainly eating Jedi by the dozens. He keeps seeing stars when he meditates, whether it's the kind where he sits still or the kind where he slowly dances with a lightsaber the way Naroko taught him, stars strewn across the galaxy that are going out one by one, snuffed out by the terrible war. And he knows.

They are Jedi, and they are dying. The Separatists seem particularly keen on targeting them, killing them outright or taking them prisoner, for torture, for use as bait, for all know that Jedi will come for Jedi.

He's had to come for five of his brothers and sisters already.

There's his Padawan.

And those are two words he'd never thought he'd string together. His Padawan. Little Ahsoka is an exasperating little ball of spunk, but he actually kinda likes this whole teaching thing. Even if he's convinced he'll be gray before he turns twenty-five from chasing after her.

He told ObiWan that once.

He'd never seen his Master laugh so hard.

Honestly he was fairly convinced ObiWan was going to crack a rib in the process.

And then there's Padme.

He had no regrets about marrying her, his Angel. He lives for the moments they can steal from time together, her kiss, her touch, for getting to stand and watch her speak to the Senate, her voice ringing strong and clear throughout the enormous chamber. She's a vision, his Angel. A force of nature embodied in a tiny, perfect human form.

He loves her more than anything.

Which can be a bit awkward when there's a powerful empath hanging about who happens to be your Master's best friend.

Naroko can't read minds, but she can read emotions, and he's always very nervous that she'll be able to take one look at him and figure out his secret. But each time he's been around her since he'd married Padme she'd treated him the same as she always had, as a dear friend and sort of younger brother.

He'd caught her once, though, looking at him with brows knitted and lips slightly pursed, eyes too sharp and too knowing. She'd met his gaze, gave him a penetrating look, then nodded and turned back to her discussion with ObiWan.

If she knows, she isn't saying, and for that he's eternally grateful.

They don't see all that much of Naroko and Ayliah through those first six months. They are Healers, and they chose to serve by organizing refugee camps and medical services. All know, however, that if this war goes on much longer even they will be called to the front to lead troops. But at least they are under ObiWan's command. He gets to see them, now and again, and reassure himself his friends are safe.

They're here now, though. Naroko is shoulder to shoulder with ObiWan as they go over fleet movements. Her hair is long now, falling over her shoulders in a glossy black waterfall and hiding part of her face, but he sees the tight-knit swirls of color around her and feels the intensity of her song and knows she's just as focused on the display as his master is.

Even so, he sees her eyes flick to him, and there's a brush against his thoughts, warmth and welcome and acknowledgment that he's there. Her voice is music in his mind as she greets him with a _Hello, dear one. Care to come stare at these reports with us?_

She's always called him that, always called ObiWan that, her apprentice, some of her other friends. It's her verbal mark of favor, her way of showing who were the nearest to the heart she wears so openly.

He's afraid the war will break that heart, if it hasn't already. He can't bear to think of her colors muddied, her song cracked and broken by grief. No, it's good she isn't on the front, not yet, but he doesn't know that managing refugee camps will be any better for her.

He joins them at the display, looks over the holograms that show ships and transports and legions, scattered over dozens of systems. ObiWan, newly made member of the Jedi Council, has hundreds of thousands of troops under his command, more ships than he can count. He just has about ten thousand at his command on a good day. Managing the 501st is a lot less complicated than ObiWan's task of managing the entire Third Systems Army.

They talk and go over intelligence and reports and plans for hours, until none of them can keep their eyes open. It's Naroko who insists they break off first, seeing first one of her companions, then the other, nearly crack their jaws with tremendous yawns. She embraces them each in turn before sending them off. Affection and peace flow along in their wake as he and ObiWan retire to their quarters.

He truly hopes he can keep Naroko and Ayliah safe. He doesn't want to see a galaxy in which their stars have been snuffed out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohey, plot!
> 
> This is where things really sort of kick off and this fic goes from a collection of establishing scenes to things actually happening. Also kinda the last fluffy one for a while.


	7. Twenty-one Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is hell. It snuffs out the lights of the best and brightest, and threatens to consume all. 
> 
> Or
> 
> In which Anakin says 'Kriff that noise, I'm not losing anyone else.'

He's twenty-one years old and and the war is dragging on.

He's never seen Naroko cry before.

Separatists had hit the refugee camp she had been running. It was a brutal assault, with enough battle droids to assault a fortress armed by as many soldiers as there were completely unarmed and displaced civilians in the camp. It had been a slaughter, bloody and cold.

He and ObiWan and Ahsoka had arrived as quickly as they could, but out of ten thousand refugees, only a dozen had survived. Only a handful of the clone soldiers detailed to the camp had survived.

Of the two Healers who had been there to visit and inspect, only Naroko had survived.

He and ObiWan make their report to the Council. When they had made the call, they had left Naroko sitting off to the side, out of the way of the bridge crew. She seemed to be in a daze, but the clone medic who'd examined her said she was uninjured, just in shock.

Now he turns to check on her again. She's surrounded by her personal squad of clones. Distaff Squad, they're called, because something had gone wrong when they were being grown and the result was five female clones- Jayna, Ace, Bullseye, Tinker, and Mercy. The five crowd around their Jedi General, touching, hugging, leaning against her, their swarthy faces, some tattooed, some not, all pinched in concern. Naroko is at the center of the clutch, curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight about her, hair tumbling about her in ebony falls, weeping without a sound.

It's upsetting to see her in such distress, making no noise even as she sobs like her heart is broken, her colors fractured and too sharp and colored by grief. He knows she's felt too many deaths today, felt too many losses, seen too many stars snuffed out. An empath, linked to those around her through the Force by the medium of emotion, can only take so much fear and pain and death.

He's seen her lose before, seen her struggle with the aftershocks of losing troops, but this-

She lost people she'd been fighting for, the very people she was supposed to serve and protect. Civilians, not soldiers. Not people bred and raised and trained for the brutal realities of war, but innocents, old and young, who wanted nothing but to be left in peace. The people she dedicated her life and service to.

He's never hated the Separatists so much as he did in that moment. The Force ripples around him, red-red-red with his rage, and he wants to hunt down the kriffing bastards who'd come in and slaughtered innocents and hurt her so and _kill them_.

She flinches.

It's small, but he sees her cringe as his anger washes over her, another threat, another irritant on overwhelmed senses and a heart burned raw. He does something he's rarely managed to succeed at before.

He tamps down the rage, cuts it off like the head of a battle droid.

He will not hurt her further today.

No one will hurt her further today.

He comes over, takes her hand in his. She starts, eyes wild and red from her silent weeping, staring at him as if she doesn't quite recognize who she's looking at.

He talks to her, softly, as if she's a frightened, wounded animal. _It's okay, it's alright, you're safe_ , he whispers, speaking the words aloud and through the Force, gentle gentle gentle. _I'm here, we're here, it will be okay._

ObiWan's there with him now, taking her other hand as Mercy steps back to give him room, bright and clear in the Force, and he's whispering the same things. Ahsoka is close behind, taking the spot directly in front of her and resting her small red hands on the healer's knees. Tinker steps back, Tinker, with her prosthetic arm to match his own and half a leg just to outdo him, and he moves to take the space she'd left by Naroko's side.

He reaches out to the Force. He's no healer, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he has an idea.

The Force comes to his call, still a bit muddied, still disturbed by echoes of pain and fear, but under it all is pure, clear, light. Peace and strength and connection all in one, the living, beating lifeblood of the universe. He calls it, and gently pours it over the traumatized Jedi who clings to his flesh-and-blood hand as if it's the only thing keeping her alive and sane.

She shudders and closes her eyes as it washes over her, washing away the pain, dulling the screams to whispers, living and renewing energies sinking into her. There's more, bright clear streams that flow from ObiWan, from Ahsoka, who is quick to catch on to what her master and grandmaster are doing. She was adopted by Naroko too, soon after becoming his apprentice, for that was Naroko, taking all in under her wings and loving each and every one.

The Force washes over Naroko, and the jagged edges of her colors soften, steady, no longer sharp and flickering, easing to their usual, softer tones. Her song settles, losing the jarring tones that had shattered her harmony, until it hums in concert with his and ObiWan's and Ahsoka's.

They give her peace, and love, and comfort.

When she opens her eyes, there is sense in them again. Pain, still, so much pain, but no longer unbearable, as she releases the worst of her burden into the Force and lets it drift away.

She's so tired, though, and even after ObiWan strokes her hair and Ahsoka hugs her tight and they both go to attend to matters, he stays. He stays, focusing on the warm light of the Force, and lets it channel through him to bathe her. The Distaffs close ranks around him and their General, solid, reassuring presences, each one touching some part of Naroko so she can feel them clearly and draw strength from them.

It's a little uncanny to look at one of them, to see a figure in white clone trooper armor, with the dark skin and thick brows and proud strong nose and the same dark eyes as any of a hundred, a thousand, a million other clones, but to see the bold lines of that familiar face softened a little in feminine features. But the Distaffs are as fierce and loyal as any of their brothers, and they are devoted to their General.

She leans against him, slumping against his chest, her face relaxing in sleep. He holds her close and pets her hair, remembering a time when she'd done the same for a little boy who'd cried himself to sleep because he missed his mother so terribly much.

He remembers his promise to keep her safe.

He will do better. He will learn. He will become an even greater Jedi than he already is.

He will keep them all safe.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one chapter I was really looking forward to. Anakin gets really interesting to write at about this age because there's so much going on in his head that's getting exacerbated by the mess the galaxy's in. He's angry and fiercely protective, and like hell is he going to let this war take away one of the people he cares about. And I wanted to play with just how utterly horrible a war would be on a powerful Empath like Naroko.
> 
> Also introducing the first squad of clone OCs- the Distaffs!
> 
> Ayliah is fine, she wasn't at the refugee camp when it was hit. 
> 
> The Distaffs were inspired by the SWTCW eps featuring 'bad batcher' clone 99 and my own interest in biology. Who says something couldn't go wrong and result in the creation of female Fett-line clones?
> 
> Also hey, I'm an artist! And I drew Naroko, Ayliah, and the Distaffs! You can find the art and more background info on them [here!](https://gryphonsartblog.tumblr.com/post/155928051363/some-star-wars-ocs-because-i-am-100-star-wars)


	8. Twenty-Two Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Republic falls.
> 
> Arise, Darth Vader.

He's twenty-two years old, and Naroko is gone.

They're all gone.

The Jedi.

ObiWan.

Padme.

Ayliah.

Ahsoka.

They're all gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, super short.


	9. Twenty-Four Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Vader is distracted.

He's twenty-four years old, and something is driving him to distraction.

He'll be on the bridge of a Star Destroyer overseeing the crew. He'll be in his personal fighter, leading a sweep over enemy territory. He'll be deep in his meditation chambers, fighting to focus through the pain, the never-ending pain, of seared flesh and charred bone and scorched neurons, of prosthetics that don't fit quite right and implants that dig into what remains of his body, of lungs that burn, burn, burn with each breath forced into them by his respirator.

He'll be hunting one of the last surviving Jedi, hissing red lightsaber in hand to cut them down.

And there will be- something. A touch against his shields, a snatch of maddeningly familiar song.

He knows the touch, realizes after the fifth or sixth time it's a familiar one, laced with colors and chords he knows well, or knew once.

He snatches after it, but always it drifts away like smoke, dissolving into the Force.

He starts to wonder if he's starting to go mad.

Because he can't be sensing what he's sensing.

Naroko Chiston is dead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't be surprised if Vader had gone mad, after all the shit he's been through.
> 
> Also, consider this chapter a bit of a celebration over the fact that Star Wars: The Clone Wars did NOT leave Netflix!! *fistpump*


	10. Twenty-Six Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naroko can't resist meddling. She also Has A Plan.

He's twenty-six years old, and he had thought he was done having dreams that weren't nightmares.

Or Force visions. Or whatever this is.

'Here' seems to be a smooth flat plane under a dome of stars. He turns about, the hiss of his respirator painfully loud to his enhanced hearing.

And suddenly he isn't alone. A woman stands there, tall and willowy, her fall of black hair threaded with a few strands of white that look like shooting stars against the night sky, an echo to the heavens domed above them. Dark slanted eyes watch him, steady as stone.

Her song is quieter now, her colors fractured in places, some too sharp and some too soft, clashing a little at the edges.

He breathes her name, the musical syllables of it made flat and ugly by the mechanical bass that is his voice.

_Naroko._

She is straight-backed and defiant, and he knows that she, yes _she_ is the presence who kept brushing his thoughts for two years, touching his mind, distracting him at the worst possible moments from his assigned tasks as he tried to chase after that fleeting contact, to pin it down and demand _who_ and _why._

"Anakin," she says, looking him directly in the face. Her tone is carefully neutral, and it's almost painful to hear how closed-off she is. Where before she could fit a world of emotion into a single word, now it's all hidden behind tight shields, nothing coming through. He can't tell if she's afraid or angry or anything.

But the name rouses his anger. _No. Not Anakin. Anakin was weak. Anakin is dead and gone. That boy, that light, is gone, and there is only a bitter, angry shadow._

_There is only Darth Vader._

She tilts her head a fraction to one side, but otherwise is as still and silent as a stone.

"Why?" she asks. "Why did you do it?"

He lashes out, eyes burning behind his mask, seeking to strike her down, this reminder of the Light. The Jedi Order is dead and gone, and his Master demands that he hunt down the last of their wretched kind. He doesn't want to remember those days, doesn't want to think about her song, her colors, the woman who was so kind and warm to anyone she met.

He wants to hate her.

She vanishes, and he returns to his normal round of things. The contacts still come, the brushes of thought, the enraging distractions, and time and again he finds himself snarling with rage at the mere brush of her mind and rushing to his fighter so he can hunt her down.

He intends to kill her, if he ever catches her.

Somehow, he never can catch her. He has no idea where Naroko learned to do this, to appear and vanish like smoke. He manages to snag her mind, once, just once, and tries to follow the link, find where she is, but he runs straight into shields, walls as hard and smooth as transparisteel, and then the contact breaks off. He does not know where she learned to hide like this, to cloak herself in the Force and utterly disappear.

It's maddening.

And yet-

She doesn't do it all the time. It seems to come in a pattern, once or twice a week for a couple of months, then silence for at least as long, before the contacts start again. By the time he figures out the pattern, it's too late. He is used to the contacts, to the quick brushes of her thoughts against his, and when they stop-

He misses them.

Sometimes he sees her, in a vision or a dream. It's her, he knows that, that somehow she's reaching out across the vast distances of space to speak with him.

And speak she does.

At first, it's questions. She wants to know why he's done what horrible things he has, why he's serving the monster who'd betrayed them all.

He's coldly, brutally honest with her, flinging his hurt, his anger, at her like weapons. He smiles when she flinches against the onslaught, but the smile fades as she straightens her spine and sets her shoulders, resolute.

He doesn't know why she's so determined. He doesn't know why she's doing this.

But she does. She talks, picking apart his words, laying out logic and common sense, sometimes begging him to see, sometimes throwing something he'd said right back into his teeth with sharp words of her own.

She's brutally honest in her turn. When he lays out just how wrong the Jedi Order was about some things, about their rejection of love, of attachment, she does bow her head and acknowledge she'd seen the same failings. But she never lets him use that as justification. She does not let up. She does not let him hide behind excuses. She lays out every choice he'd made that led to his Fall and patiently shows him how they were flawed, made out of fear and pain and paranoia. She shows him what Sidious had done, how he'd played them all for fools.

He can never, ever catch her. It's maddening.

And when she does not appear, he starts to miss her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naroko starts Darth Vader's rehabilitation via long-distance Force-assisted astral projection. She has a plan and more patience than any sane person should have. The other survivors thinks she's mad for even trying this, but Naroko Chiston is Out Of Fucks To Give. 
> 
> She's waited this long to start trying because she and her companions have had to do things like recover and plan, and she needed time to learn the tricks necessary to protect herself before making contact.


	11. Twenty-Seven Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naroko pushes forward with her plan and plays dirty. Darth Vader has his eyes forcibly opened to several bitter truths.

He is twenty-seven years old, and his Master is angry with him.

Honestly this isn't terribly surprising. He'd almost expected this. But he'd had to act, when he'd seen-

Naroko has kept making contact over the year. They talk. At this distance it's all they can do, really. He gave up trying to trace her months ago, gave up on the idea of trying to hunt her down when he realized he didn't want to hand her to the Jedi hunters.

He came to that realization when he'd come to join a pair on an active hunt, a pair who had run their quarry to the ground, and he'd come around the corner into an alley to find them locked in combat with a familiar tall and graceful figure wielding a gold-bladed lightsaber.

Naroko still moved like a dancer, her form somewhere between elegant Makashi and acrobatic Ataru. She'd parried a scarlet blade and glanced past the two hunters who had her backing up against a wall.

When she'd seen him, he'd felt her fear, saw how pale her face became when she saw a vision of black durasteel-clad death striding towards her battleground.

For all her patience in their talks, for all the courage it must have taken her to make regular contact with the man who'd exterminated the Jedi Order, for all the compassion she'd shown him over the last months, she was still afraid of facing him in person.

The Hunters howled their triumph. They'd run their prey to ground and now came the greatest Hunter of them all to make the kill.

And come he had, striding forward with his own red lightsaber drawn and lit, another source of scarlet light casting bloody shadows.

He touched her thoughts as he moved. She was easy to find in the Force now, unable to disappear in plain sight, and he told her _get ready._

She didn't ask for what, only reengaged with the nearer of the Hunters, gold blade flicking and flashing quick quick quick.

He went for the other.

They made quick work of the pair, and when both lie cooling in the alley she stopped and looked up at him, up further than used to be necessary, a word forming on her lips, _why_.

He didn't answer because he had no answer, only asked her to help him make her escape look plausible. When he limped back to make his report, even his Master could only snarl a little when he explained the saber cut to his prosthetic knee made it impossible for him to pursue so quick and agile an assailant.

That had been three months ago. She'd asked _why, why, why did you do it? Why did you save me?_ again when she'd next appeared.

He still had no answer, but when he asked why she'd been there, she had one. Half of one, anyway.

"Slaves, Vader," she had said. "Your Empire is built on the backs of slaves, and I was freeing some."

The words burned in his thoughts, making his vision swim in red. When it cleared again, she was standing, still as an animal when a hunter is in sight.

Fear did not entirely silence her, for when she spoke it was to suggest he walk the streets of Coruscant and see what his Empire was built upon.

That had been a month before. Three days ago he'd taken her advice and done just that, striding into the warrens of the lower levels with a squad of clones at his heels, to see what she meant. She'd come to him then, riding along with his thoughts, a ghost, an invisible companion, feeling as if she walked just behind his shoulder, and guided him to a market, to-

 _An auction._ He saw red again, nearly went for his lightsaber to cut down these slavers, to slice the collars from the necks of the cowering sentients who trudged meekly up to the block because they had no choice.

Her voice in his thoughts whispered, implacably calm, a barely restrained rage making her colors burn red. The sheer unexpectedness of that, of feeling a _Jedi_ radiating that kind of fury, made him stop.

_This is what your precious Empire is built on. Blood and fear and slaves. Who constructs those grand monuments, Vader? Who builds your fortresses, your weapons of death? Who erects all those baubles of your glorious rule? Slaves. Entire races are being enslaved. And you are letting it happen._

His breath caught, respirator not quite keeping up with the reflexive gasp. This was a new tactic for her- she'd been bluntly honest when he'd asked why she kept contacting him, explaining she had one of three goals- to bring her friend back to the Light, to turn him against his Master, or to lure him into defecting. He hadn't been surprised when he'd learned she had such plans, only that she had admitted it. She wanted him no longer serving his Master, one way or the other, and was willing to settle for any of those three outcomes. She'd been offering logic, advice, compassion, and now-

This was a weapon she'd been holding back. A weakness in the ferrocrete armor that built the fortress of his resolve. As if she'd been in a duel, she'd fallen back on the ways of thinking her Makashi form instilled in her, found that weakness, and cut his feet out from under him.

_I had a dream I was a Jedi. I came back and freed all the slaves._

The little boy's words echoed in his mind. Naroko was relentless.

 _Not enough you turn your back on the light, on your brothers and sisters, on your ideals, but you have been blind._ The anger had rippled under her icily cold words, making the simple facts she threw at him sharp-edged. _You, who used to fight slavery so fiercely, now condone it with every action you take in service of your Master._

 _You see it now. Your eyes are open. Now you_ _choose_ , _Darth Vader. Now you must act._

Unspoken and unsaid, that his choice would determine the course of their next meeting.

He'd been able to shrug off her pleas, been able to cut down her analysis of his actions, been able to ignore her attempts to make him question. But this-

His eyes were open now. He could not run from this simple fact.

He'd chosen.

Darth Vader had strode in to the middle of the auction, people backing away to give him a wide berth so he and his five clone escorts stood in the center of an empty space, saber in hand and lit to throw bloody washes of scarlet light on their gleaming white armor.

And he'd ordered the slavers to free their captives.

The slaves fled once his clone captain had pressed credits into their hands at his direction, the slavers slinking away into the shadows except for one who rather lost his head over the whole matter- and then proceeded to literally lose his head. The sight of a severed cranium bouncing down the stone steps of the auction platform silenced any further protests. Before long he and the clones stood in an empty square.

Naroko's presence was still there. He'd been shaking as he turned toward the feel of her, fury at the scene warring with the magnitude of what he'd just done, a first act of open rebellion against the Empire. A Jedi Knight had goaded him into rebelling, had lured him far enough away from his Master that he could perform so bold an act. For a moment he saw her, as clearly as if she were physically present.

She'd been smiling, alight with pride in him. Pride- and hope. Then she'd vanished.

She came back a few days later for another talk.

 _You used me_ , he accused her. _You tricked me._

She laughed. "Brought you there on purpose? Yes. Used? Tricked? No, dear one. Nothing I am doing is a trick. I do not want you at the Emperor's side. I want my brother back, but I will settle for you opening your eyes and truly seeing the monster you've sworn yourself to, seeing the Empire of blood you're helping him build."

He had no idea when she became so brazen and bold. He didn't know if it had been because her heart and soul had been shattered past mending when he and Sidious had slain the Jedi Order, because she'd gone slightly mad, or because she'd gotten involved in one of those Rebel cells he'd heard about. Or maybe all three.

But oddly, he appreciated the honesty. He expected lies and manipulation. Truth and manipulation was something he could almost find humorous. Disarming.

Which, of course, was surely why she'd chosen honesty.

Even as she laughed, there was approval, pride, hope shading her colors, brightening them a little. And her words-

She hadn't called him 'dear one' in years.

Before he could answer, a sound from the real world called him away from that place in the Force where they met, a call from his Master.

He kneels, shoddy joints aching the moment he lurches into the position. He hates having to do this but he must show subservience before his Lord.

Sidious rages at him for the slaves, which is expected. Also expected is the crashing tsunami of pain that his Master brings down upon him. This is punishment he's faced time and again when he'd failed his Master, a cruel object lesson to drive him to succeed. He'd been soft, weak, allowed himself to be moved to compassion, he had earned this pain-

There's something between him and Sidious now, a presence that shields him from the worst of it, deflects it, siphons it off into herself. Through the Force he hears a keen of agony that his hidden under his own cry of pain and surprise, and for a terrifying moment he's afraid Sidious might hear it too, sense the presence of the woman who'd unthinkingly flung herself in the way of his punishment to protect him.

But he hasn't seemed to. A moment later his Master cuts off the torment, snarls at him to remember his place, and ends the call.

He doesn't move, physically, but he does gather the flickering Force-presence of Naroko up, as if cradling a wounded comrade. She's alive and aware, but dazed, having taken the brunt of the pain.

He curses her for a hundred kinds of fool, demanding to know why.

She has an answer this time too.

"He's a bully, Vader," she says, her voice shaky but resolute. "Can't you see? You will never be good enough for him. Can never be good enough. He will move the goalposts on you, demand more and more and more, and blame you when you don't meet new standards you didn't know existed. He will convince you that the new standards were always in place, that the old ones never existed. He will use it as an excuse to hurt you. He will never let you be enough, because it's the only way he can control you."

The anger is back again, but it's not the calm, icy anger she'd used against him before. No, there is disgust and outrage, and none of it is directed at him.

He's startled to realize she's furious on his behalf, furious that Sidious would treat him so, at the manipulative, abusive trap he'd let himself walk into by swearing himself to Sidious.

He's also startled to realize she's right. Put in those words, he could start to see the pattern, how his Master always demanded more and punished him for failure, even when he'd thought he'd done good enough. Sidious was-

_Impossible to please._

She's the first to leave this time, her presence fading from his awareness, leaving him alone.

Terribly, awfully, alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo. Lots to cover in this chapter! Which is probably my favorite to date.
> 
> Naroko's spent a year now talking and persuading and trying to open up chinks in the armor that is Darth Vader's refusal to acknowledge that this situation is Fucked Up.
> 
> She is 100% manipulating Vader herself, but at least she's open and honest about it, even if her motives aren't exactly pure. 
> 
> I always found it hard to understand why Vader, who had spent the first nine years of his life in slavery and was previously shown to be willing to walk right up to the edge of the Dark Side when dealing with slavers, would serve with and condone an Empire that enslaved entire species. Being at the top levels of the Empire probably insulated him somewhat, and he does have a great capacity for denial. 
> 
> Naroko has no time for that nonsense, so she sets him up to have that particular river in Africa dammed up and drained. But she's as quick to put herself on the line to protect Vader when he starts showing signs of positive behavior as she is to rub his nose in his bad life choices.


	12. Twenty-Eight Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Vader goes to meet Naroko in person for the first time in years.

He’s twenty-eight years old, as near as he can tell, and for the first time in years he’s standing in front of Naroko Chiston.

The deck of the little transport ship she’d brought to meet his fighter hums. He can feel it, a vague vibration running up through his boots and his prosthetic legs. It’s the only sound in the tiny hangar aside from his own breathing.

He can sense seven beings total on this ship, the _Ryllrunner_. All are familiar. He knows each person here. Naroko stands before him, head up and shoulders back. Beside her is Ayliah, who watches him with dark, suspicious eyes and a tight mouth. If they are here, he knows who the others must be. The Distaffs, somehow, have survived the last six years, still loyal to their former General and Commander. He has no idea how they’ve managed this, but their familiar presences do much to ease his mind.

He’d been worried this might be a trap. Naroko is so hard to read when she wants to be, behind the shields she’s formed since the Republic fell. This could have been a ploy for the Rebellion to take him prisoner.

Or try, anyway. It would ultimately have been a fruitless attempt but it would have been a pity to have to slaughter people just trying to stop a monster.

But he should have realized. Naroko had given her word, as he had given his to come here, alone and untraceable. He had stopped treating her as an enemy a long time ago, and she had responded in kind, rewarding trust with trust.

Now he is here, face to face with her at last.

A slight smile curls her lips.

“Vader,” she says. “I’m glad you came.”

The warmth he feels gives truth to her words. The suspicion and barely-veiled hostility from her former Padawan, likewise, tells him that Ayliah is most certainly _not_. But she’s here, as Naroko had said she would be.

He looks between them both before his gaze falls back on Naroko. He tells her, slowly, that this is his only choice.

“There is never only one choice. There is always an alternative. But this is a good choice.”

She lays a hand on his upper arm, above the prosthetic. He can feel it, dimly, through the layers of his suit. She’s the first person to touch him like that in years, with kindness.

He lets her lead him through the corridors of the _Ryllrunner_ , to a hold that had been converted into a medical bay. Mercy is waiting there. Like the other clones around her age, she is looking older. She’s still brisk and professional, and has the space ready.

Naroko and Ayliah and Mercy get to work, and he lets them. Readings are taken, tests run, Mercy sticks her head out of the door and shouts for Tinker. The clone mechanic makes a brief appearance, taking a datadisk from her sister and tossing him a cheerful salute before she vanishes again. Then the real work begins.

Gentle hands strip him down, hook him up to an external respirator. There’s more tests and examinations and readings. They take blood samples.

Too accustomed to constant pain, he doesn’t even twitch when Ayliah takes a sample of bone marrow. They wanted some stem cells, Naroko had explained while they were making the arrangements for all of this, in case they needed to grow replacement organs.

His lack of reaction to the pain of having a very large needle stabbed into the bone of his upper arm makes Naroko frown, her song shifting its pitch and tone to tell him she’s frowning, but he pays no attention. Pain has been his constant companion for years. This was nothing.

He keeps his eyes closed as they work. The helmet that protects his eyes, allows him to hear, allows him to breathe and speak, has been disassembled and set aside for this procedure. He sits stoically as careful hands begin debriding the patches of dead, abraded skin from his limbs where the suit rubs him raw. Naroko talks to him all the while, her words trickling gently into his mind rather than his ears. His eardrums had been too badly damaged on Mustafar to recover, the damage to them even worse than that to his lungs, his retinas. Without the helmet, he hears nothing at all, not even the gentle hiss of the respirator unit they attached him to. It’s peaceful, more peaceful than even being in his meditation chambers. Naroko’s presence is strong and reassuring, offering comfort as she works. Mercy is as calm and professional as ever, intent on what she’s doing. Ayliah…

Well, she might not be happy to see him, but she’s as insulted on a professional level as Naroko had been when she realized how poorly he’d been put back together at Palpatine’s orders. She’s still angry, but it’s under tight control now and no longer directed at him. She, like her Master, is a healer, dedicated to relieving pain and mending what is broken.

He follows their progress though the Force. Ayliah is not as good at mending bodies as Naroko is. Her specialty is treating disorders and trauma of the mind, so she is tasked with the ‘easier’ problems. As she works, lingering aches in his arms and legs he had stopped noticing because they just got drowned out by the pain of everything else begins to ease. Mercy treats the damage the suit does to his skin, and monitors equipment and hooks him up to an IV of something, generally helping while the Jedi work. It’s Naroko who does the heavy lifting here. He feels her presence and is able to trace the flows of her power as she works. It sinks into his organs, mending damage, strengthening weak tissues, encouraging new growth. He knows she can’t mend everything at once. He’s an absolute mess patched together with cybernetics, Sith alchemy, and sheer stubbornness. He knows that this process is going to take numerous meetings, multiple procedures, and probably two or three surgeries at least.

But she's helping. And she wants to help more.

Her hands are warm on his bare skin. The feel of her power, of Ayliah's power, is just as warm and soothing. It's peacefully quiet. Under the care of two Jedi healers and a clone medic, he lets himself drift for a time.

When he comes awake, his eyes snap open by reflex. He winces by at once, expecting searing pain from bright light on his damaged retinas.

There isn't any.

He finds that odd. There's definitely light in the room, and yet his eyes don't hurt. He opens them again, just a crack.

Still no pain.

There's a warm feeling, like touching a smile, and her thoughts brush his. _I could do that much today,_ Naroko tells him. She sounds exhausted in his mind, her song and colors muted with weariness, but pleased.

It's hard to smile with the respirator mask in place, but he does his best, sending her his thanks. He's beginning to believe, really believe, this might work. That maybe one day, he'll be free of this accursed suit.

Naroko touches his cheek, her face lit up with a warm smile.

_You're welcome, dear one._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one I was really looking forward to writing. Naroko is just SO OFFENDED about how badly the Imperial medics put Vader back together. Even Ayliah, who still hates Vader for what he's done and thinks Naroko is insane for even talking to him, is professionally offended enough to lend a hand.
> 
> Mercy just wants to do a good job. Tinker is SO EXCITED to work on modifications to the suit and life support systems. 
> 
> The clones still see Vader as General Skywalker, at least to a degree, and are pleased to see him.
> 
> You can read more about the Death Suit [here on Wookipedia.](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Darth_Vader's_armor) He is SO MESSED UP and only half of it is because of his actual injuries. The other half is because Palpatine ordered him to be patched up but only to a point, deliberately not designing the suit quite properly and not arranging for full medical care because he's easier to control that way.


	13. Thirty Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Vader is no more. Vader Skywalker defects from the Empire.

He's thirty years old, and for the second time in his life, he's forsworn his Master.

It has been eight years since he'd Fallen, four since Naroko had first made real contact with him and began the slow, often painful process of helping him back to the Light.

He isn't certain if he'll ever truly be there again. He will certainly never be Anakin Skywalker again. He gave up that name, and it was no longer his to reclaim. Anakin Skywalker had been a different man entirely. Now he was...

He isn't quite certain who he is, actually. He's a little of both now. He's recalled Anakin's passions, Anakin's drive to make things right, to fix things, but his hands are stained with too much blood shed by Darth Vader to ever be clean again.

_Vader. Skywalker. I am both._

_So both I shall be, I suppose._

He stands aboard the bridge of his Super Star Destroyer. The _Executor_ will come out of hyperspace any moment now, and the bridge is humming with anticipation and anxiety. The faces that occasionally glance his way are mixed. A quarter, perhaps slightly more, are clones. He's gathered up every one he can get his hands on sans those directly serving the Emperor, and there are plenty of familiar faces still in the mix. Rex had gone missing years ago, but Cody's there, commanding the remaining clones and acting as an aide, managing the absurd logistics require to keep an eight-kilometer-long ship crewed by a quarter million personnel running. His personal unit are there too, Grapple and Boomer and Fixer and Hypo, with too-clever Guile hovering at his elbow, waiting for what was to come.

The rest of the faces are a varied lot. Almost all human, and mostly male, because that was what was coming in to the Imperial Academy these days, but they are individual faces, not modified copies of one another. He and Guile had searched out every one of the people onboard, recruiting from the Academy and transferring those already in service in the fleet when they learned that they were suited for their purpose.

It was a purpose that would probably get them all killed, but it was necessary. He knew that now. And, having learned what that purpose was, his recruits agreed. They are ready to face what is about to come.

They're still nervous.

They're probably right to be.

The navigator announces time to reversion. He nods, and a moment later the flares of color out the transparisteel viewports condense into white lines, which shrink into individual stars. The _Executor_ comes into realspace over a huge planet cloaked in swirling orange gases, but that planet isn't their destination.

The small jungle moon orbiting it is.

He can only vaguely sense it at this distance, but he can certainly imagine the chaos erupting below them. It was only natural. The only people living on this moon were Rebels and a handful of Jedi survivors. They would, of course, panic to see an Imperial Super Star Destroyer come out of hyperspace over their heads.

But it was a Super Star Destroyer that has come alone. There are no Star Destroyers, no corvettes, no smaller capital ships flitting around it in escort. The _Executor_ 's only company out here in space are the wing of TIE fighters nestled in its belly, its troop transports and shuttles. That, surely, would make someone pause.

He orders the communications officer to open a broadcast, and when the officer nods to tell him all is ready, he speaks.

"Rebel base," he says, as calmly as he can, and he knows that the mere sound of his voice must have stirred up the panic the Rebel control room even further. "I am General Vader Skywalker, formerly Darth Vader. I and my troops have defected from service to Emperor Palpatine, and we come to you to offer our support in your efforts against the Empire. I wish to land and discuss terms with your people."

There is absolute silence on the other end of the comm. He waits a moment, then starts to repeat his message, thinking perhaps it hadn't gotten through, when a voice tentatively interrupts.

The voice sounds so young. The speaker can't be more than an adolescent, but he is pleased by the courage the young one must have mustered to be able to speak the reply without faltering. He is asked, _very_ politely, to wait. He does so. His sensor technicians report that the Rebels are scrambling fighters, though what good fighters would do against the _Executor_ is anyone's guess. It's a token gesture at best, and everyone knows it.

He feels sorry for those pilots. They know what they're being asked to do. A run against a ship like the _Executor_ is certain suicide. The fighters keep their distance, wary as rodents smelling a lothcat, and he watches them idly while he waits.

At last a new voice comes on the comm, crisp and cultured and heartbreakingly familiar.

 _You have permission to land a single shuttle_ , Obi-Wan says. Vader closes his eyes behind his mask for a moment at the sound of that voice. Naroko had admitted that Obi-Wan was alive and well and had been working with the Rebellion, but he hadn't expected his old master's voice to be the one to greet him when he arrived.

He's on the shuttle a few minutes later, with his clones and a single other passenger, a twelve-year-old girl who slumped fast asleep in her seat, locks of red-gold hair tumbling about her face. She has a distinctively cleft chin, and when she's awake her blue-grey eyes are as familiar as the cultured voice that had spoken to him only moments ago. Little Mara Jade is a clone, a distaff clone like Naroko's squad, but her donor is not the bounty hunter Jango Fett.

Her donor is Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Guile had discovered her shortly before they'd defected and brought word of her to him. He'd been furious to learn of her- not for her sake, but the purpose for which she'd been bred. Palpatine had been raising her, grooming her as a future apprentice, intending to use the fact of her bloodline as a goad for him, to one day use her sex as a weapon and fling that use in his face as a cruel mockery of the man who'd first trained him, perhaps to even have her twist the knife in him herself just so he could savor the irony.

There had been no question about it. He'd swept in and taken the child, then fled the Empire before she could suffer such a fate. He's had to keep her asleep during the journey, but he intends to give her over to Ayliah for care and teaching.

He glances back at the sleeping child now and again during the flight down to Yavin's fourth moon. If ever he'd doubted, second-guessed himself about defecting, her very existence confirmed that he'd been right to do it. He could no longer serve a Master who would create a child for the reasons Palpatine had created Mara.

_No more. I will see Palpatine and his Empire destroyed._

His pilot is another rescued stray, a Corellian youth who'd been a rising star in the Navy until he'd stood up to the officer overseeing a labor force of Wookie slaves. The boy had immediately been stripped of his rank and discharged. Having kept an eye on him when he was a cadet and proving himself to be almost as good a pilot as he himself was, he'd caught wind of the issue and immediately recruited him to the _Executor_. Solo and his new Wookie companion had been told of his true purpose, and had been eager to assist. They land the shuttle where the Rebels order them to, in one of the more remote landing fields away from their main base. The Rebels are taking no chances. The landing zone is already ringed with armed troops and weaponry. No one is accepting his good intentions on faith.

That's fine. He wouldn't either.

To help ease their frantic nerves, he keeps his hands away from his sides, away from his lightsaber, as he makes his way down the ramp. He pauses at the bottom, his unarmed clone soldiers following. The squad's medic, Hypo, carries Mara cradled protectively against his chest.

A group works its way through the rings of guards and stops at the edge of the platform. He is relieved to see Naroko there. She's the only one smiling. Beside her, Ayliah gives him a polite, if very stiff, nod.

Next to them is Obi-Wan. The lines etched into his face by the war are deeper now, the product of eight more years of strain and worry, and like Naroko there are grey threads in his hair. And beside him stands-

Padme.

His angel.

She's as beautiful as ever. Her face is also a little lined now, but she still carries herself like a queen, like a senator, chin raised and eyes direct. There's suspicion in her gaze, but he'd expected that. She still favored lovely dresses, and this green dress was a pretty one, softly hugging her figure to elegantly display her curves and the swell of her-

He would have stopped breathing right then and there if he was physically capable of doing so. Like the last time he'd seen Padme, she's pregnant. Too late he realizes that one of the bright stars he senses from the little group doesn't belong to one of the Jedi, but to Padme's new, unborn child.

For a moment he wants to think that Padme had taken a lover from the Rebellion, some pilot, perhaps, a soldier, someone who had perhaps died in the last few months, and that's why Obi-Wan is standing next to her like that, one hand resting on her shoulder.

But then Obi-Wan senses where his attention is, and he steps a little closer to Padme, fingers tightening protectively on her shoulder, and she leans a fraction back towards him, and he knows the truth. Obi-Wan Kenobi, who'd spent so long clinging to the Jedi Code, fighting attachments, has turned away from that part of his life. Obi-Wan Kenobi, from whom the galaxy has taken so much, has found something to hold on to with all his heart.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is going to be a father, and the look on his face says plainly that he will not permit harm to come to either his child or its mother. If he so much as looks wrong at Padme, there will be no mercy for him like there was on Mustafar.

The realization hurts. He's truly lost Padme.

 _You lost her years ago, dear one._ Naroko has clearly been following the eddies and currents of his emotions and read them. Her words are gentle in his mind. _And she is not yours to win back. I'm sorry that it hurts so, but they are happy together._

He takes a moment then to regather his thoughts, for now shying away from this unexpected new wound, and tries to will himself pleased for Obi-Wan and Padme. Naroko is right. He'd lost Padme long ago. Why should she not move on? Why should she not find happiness with someone else? Why should Obi-Wan not allow himself happiness?

If he thinks like that, he believes he can ignore the pain.

A shrieking, tow-headed whirlwind provides plenty of distraction. Before anyone can so much as move, a young boy has shoved his way through the ring of guards, dashed across the open space, and slammed into his hip, wrapping his arms around his waist and delightedly shrieking, " _Papa! Papa!_ " There's a girl his age too, dark-eyed and dark haired, who also pushes forward, but stops when Padme manages to grab her by the wrist to keep her from joining her twin. She smiles brightly, though.

He kneels, carefully, wincing as he does so because even after two years of Naroko's treatments this still hurts, and looks into Luke's face for the first time. It's almost odd to be seeing him in person. The boy had somehow managed to reach out to him a few years ago, much like Naroko had. The Force had brought them together somehow. Naroko had told him Padme had been furious about it, but when it was clear that Luke was bound and determined to keep talking to his father and the Force was plainly willing to accommodate this desire, she'd managed to convince the former Senator to allow it, so long as he could not actually get at the young boy or draw information from him. It had been a rough time, and Naroko had been extremely protective of Luke. It was one thing to risk herself. She was a trained Jedi, used to taking chances and experienced enough, trained enough, to keep herself safe even when confronting a Sith Lord. An untrained child, on the other hand, was easy prey, and none of Luke's guardians had been easy about letting Luke speak with him. It was only when Naroko pointed out that it was better to allow carefully supervised and monitored meetings than to risk Luke getting it into his head to contact his father on his own that Padme had reluctantly relented.

He'd just been stunned to learn who the tow-headed boy was. He'd thought that his child had died with Padme, but he supposed he should have guessed when he'd learned Padme had survived. Learning about Leia later on had left him similarly gobsmacked.

He smiles now, looking at his son. Luke is well-named, a beacon of light who beams up at him with unfeigned delight.

"Hello Luke," he tells him. "I'm glad to see you at last."

Then he hugs his son, and slowly gets to his feet once more, crossing the last distance between him and the group who has come to greet him. Leia pries herself away from her mother to hug him, with a lot more restraint and dignity than her twin had showed. Clearly, she takes after Padme in more than just looks. Padme herself is reluctant to speak with him, but Obi-Wan, at least, is willing to talk. He shies back a little, head coming up sharply when he addresses him as _Master_ , protesting that no, he wasn't his master anymore.

 _But you are_ , he tells the elder Jedi firmly. This he had to make clear. He would never call Palpatine that again.

There are meetings. Debriefings. Questionings. The interrogations are almost funny, actually. None of the Rebels are entirely sure what to make of him. All they see is Darth Vader, the masked terror who'd been the Emperor's attack dog for eight years, and now suddenly they have him sitting or standing before them, apparently perfectly calm and unruffled, answering their questions without any indication of deception or ill intent. And he's brought more than just a fully armed and crewed Super Star Destroyer. Guile, dear clever little Guile, who'd been operating as his spymaster for six years and more, had pulled _petabytes_ of information from the Imperial records before they'd left, information on Imperial fleet makeup, armaments, plans for movements and postings throughout the galaxy, troop information, current operations plans, intelligence drawn from spies throughout the galaxy, information pulled from secret plans and projects, tactical data of all sorts. It was from this information that he'd learned about Mara Jade, and there was still much, much more to go through.

The Mon Cal he has Guile give the computer core with all this information on it to nearly faints when he tells her what it contains.

That is perhaps the most amusing part of the entire process. Otherwise it is really rather boring. He is kept on his own, in a mostly empty room in the heart of the ancient stone temple the Rebels had made into their base. There are always guards outside. They are token guards, no more, and everyone knows it, for what could a handful of armed soldiers really do against Darth Vader if he decides to get it into his head to stop playing nice?

He knows Naroko and ObiWan speak on his behalf. Naroko tells him that much when she comes to visit. She does that often, when she's not needed in the infirmary. They talk. It's never about anything the Rebellion would consider sensitive. She tells him that Ayliah has taken little Mara into her care. The girl is an angry mess. Palpatine has done a lot to groom her to the Dark Side and begun her training as a future apprentice. She has to be kept asleep most of the time. The last time she woke up, Naroko tells him, she'd escaped the infirmary and had almost gotten to the communications terminals in the operations room before she'd been recovered, and she'd injured four troopers who'd tried to stop her before Ayliah could arrive. The Twi'lek healer has been speaking to her mind-to-mind, mentoring and persuading building a rapport and gently working on Mara's issues ever since. It's likely, Naroko tells him, that Ayliah will take Mara as an apprentice once she can be trusted not to immediately make a dash back to Palpatine, or call the Empire down on their heads.

Ayliah will be a good teacher, he thinks.

They speak of other things too. She tells him what Luke and Leia are up to. Luke's just as fascinated with flying and starships as he is, and Leia has begun developing a serious interest in politics and leadership. Both children are studying the ways of the Force, Luke under Obi-Wan's guidance and Leia under Naroko's. Luke, she says, will likely choose to become a Jedi in the new Order the survivors are putting together. She doesn't think Leia will ultimately settle on that path, but it's important she know how to control the power that is her birthright.

She tells him about Obi-Wan and Padme. They'd gotten together shortly after the fall of the Republic, for mutual comfort. Funny, how he'd once feared that they were seeing one another behind his back, only for him to mess everything up and create a situation where they _did_ start seeing one another. Padme is five months pregnant, she tells him. The baby is a girl, quite healthy, and very strong in the Force. They're still discussing names. Obi-Wan still hasn't quite wrapped his head around the notion that the child is actually his. He'd done very well helping to raise the twins and serving as their father, but apparently the idea of raising a child that he'd helped create was something he was still struggling with. But he was up for the task and looking forward to the birth as much as everyone else.

They discuss his medical procedures. Their ultimate goal is to get him able to function relatively normally without relying on his life-support equipment and suit. Two years of work has done a lot to bring them towards that goal. She'd healed his eyes in that first visit, and had worked diligently to heal his damaged vocal cords and eardrums. The latter procedure had been a rather awkward process. She'd had to regrow those entirely, starting the process during one visit and following up to finish the job during the next, and they had _itched_ incessantly during the whole three-month interlude between visits. That had been a special kind of hell, having his eardrums itch for weeks on end when there was no way he could try to relieve it. Some of his organs she'd been able to heal quite nicely. Others, like his lungs, were going to be replaced with cloned organs grown from his own cells. They'd been holding off on that procedure until he'd left the Empire, since that would require lengthy surgery and recovery time- and would be impossible to hide from Imperial doctors, or Palpatine himself. Many of the implants that Palpatine's medical droids had put in him would need to be removed at the same time, but Naroko was quite optimistic. He was still fairly young, after all, and he'd been getting stronger and healthier under her care. She'd patched him up to the point where he'd been able to wean himself entirely off of the Kouhunin neurotoxin he'd been forced to use to reduce his perception of pain. That had pleased her immensely- apparently the toxin had been stressing his liver and with it out of his system it had been much easier to heal the damage.

He'd come to realize that Naroko approached fixing people a lot like he approached fixing droids, and with a similar degree of enthusiasm. He'd been professionally offended when he'd realized all of the inherent flaws and inefficiencies built into his suit. She had been professionally offended when she'd seen how he'd basically been patched together with spit and spare wire.

As much as he dearly appreciated all she was doing to put him back together right, it was a little odd to be on the receiving end of such enthusiastic repair. At least it was tempered with genuine compassion and empathy. She could feel how much difficulty and pain he was in and was moved to ease it.

And all she's ever asked of him was to think about what he was doing with his life, to really see the situation he'd gotten himself into.

He's known for years that she was, quite blatantly, manipulating him. She'd told him as much to his face, had told him her goals. Yes, she was moved by empathy and concern for someone she had once cared for deeply, but going into this whole mess her primary aim had been to get him away from Palpatine, for his sake and the galaxy's. He's also known that somewhere along the line she's come to care for him again, that her desire to help him wasn't solely born from her self-admitted mission or even just compassion for a man who'd made terrible choices and had wound up in the worst situation possible. Somewhere along the line she'd chosen to consider him a friend once more, and that had given a personal edge to her efforts. There was little she would not do for a friend, and when he'd finally asked for her help...

He would never forget that moment, when her face had lit up with the warmest smile he'd seen in years and she'd taken his hands and whispered _Yes, dear one, I will help you._

He spends two weeks being debriefed, during which he's entirely up front with his interrogators. what he's done. He doesn't spare himself, but he expresses regret for all of it. They still don’t know what to make of him, but the longer he sits there and answers questions and generally doesn’t act like the nightmare they’re expecting, the more they start to relax. One of his interrogators is clearly a starship enthusiast, and has a lot of questions about his modified TIE fighter. They actually hold a fairly enthusiastic discussion about the modifications and how the little ship handles that gets the young Zabrak smiling at several points before she tentatively asks him about flying missions in the Clone Wars. He’s pleased to oblige her, and by the time someone comes to check on them- likely to make sure he hasn’t strangled his interrogator- he’s quite engaged in his story, using hand gestures and small levitated objects to give her a visual representation.

The Zabrak’s superior looks displeased that she had gotten so sidetracked, but she has no regrets at all that he can sense.

At last the rounds of questioning are over. He and Naroko and Obi-Wan have managed to convinced the Rebel leadership that he’s come with genuine intentions, that he isn’t here to spy on them or kill everyone. Naroko insists on being the one to bring the news that he’s been released from his solitary confinement.

It’s official, she tells him. He’s a Rebel now. He’ll be watched, of course. There are still people among the leadership who are not certain of his loyalties yet, and they need to be appeased. There are also more than a few, particularly among the nonhumans, who are demanding he be put on trial for the various atrocities he’s committed. He certainly understands where they’re coming from, but someone had spoken on his behalf. He won’t be tried, imprisoned, or executed. He’s brought too much in the way of support to the Rebels. He’ll retain command of the _Executor_ , and there is some tentative discussion of making it the core of the Rebel fleet, what rag-tag bits and pieces of a fleet they have, anyway. Certainly they have nothing that can even come close to matching the Super Star Destroyer’s firepower. As long as he doesn’t turn on the Rebellion, he’ll be allowed to aid them.

He knows full well he could have simply taken his ship and his people off on their own and formed an independent force to strike at the Empire, but that idea didn’t appeal. For one thing, it would have been more trouble than it was worth to support the _Executor_ as an independent entity. They would have had to spend as much time raiding supply depots for material and general supplies as they would have spent actually fighting the Empire. For another, the people he cared about were here. Naroko, Obi-Wan, Padme, his children… To see them meant that he had to serve with them.

Thirdly, he could become a powerful symbolic force for the Rebellion. Their goals and ideals aligned with those he had been developing over the past few years, and he had been a very visible presence in the Empire. If word got out that he had defected, because he had chosen to defy Palpatine and support the Rebellion that sought to tear down the Galactic Empire and restore democracy, he could possibly inspire others to follow him, without blood needing to be shed.

He voices that train of logic to Naroko one night while doing a bit of routine maintenance on his arm. She listens, head tilted slightly, and smiles, telling him he’s right, and they might be able to make use of the symbol he’d become to bring more people to their side.

He expects her to leave it at that, but she leans over and rests her hand on his upper arm, where he can feel it through his suit.

“I’m proud of you, dear one,” she says softly.

“Thank you,” he says, just as softly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one I was super excited about, with loads to cover.
> 
> Since this series is supposed to be about Vader and Naroko, I wound up doing a lot of summarizing all in one chapter, but Vader's been really busy since the events of the last one! He's crewed a Super Star Destroyer with officers willing to rebel against the Empire, had his clone spymaster hack the Imperial records to steal ALL OF THE INFO, made himself a friend and patron to Han Solo (with Chewbacca coming along for the ride) and kidnapped Palpatine's new apprentice. 
> 
> Come to think of it, I should do a spinoff fic about Vader and Han.
> 
> I absolutely love Mara Jade. She is the Star Wars universe's answer to Natasha Romanov, one of my other favorite ladies. My cowriter and I thought that making Mara a distaff clone of our favorite ginger Jedi sasspants was a great example of Palpatine's continual 'fuck yous' to Vader. She'll probably make some other appearances in this series.
> 
> We also properly introduce the other important squad of clones, Captain Grapple and his boys, who were last scene helping Vader face down a bunch of slavers. They serve Vader directly, since Cody is kind of running logistical stuff for the Executor and Rex vanished years ago. Boomer is explosives and ordinance, Fixer is the mechanic, Hypo is Vader's medic and was very glad to learn he was seeing Naroko for treatment, and Guile is Intelligence.
> 
> Naroko, Obi-Wan, Padme, and Ayliah spent most of the last eight years on Alderaan, helping Bail Organa put together the Rebel Alliance and helping raise Luke and Leia. Somewhere along the line the Force decided that if Luke wanted to see his real daddy, it would be quite happy to arrange matters. Padme was Not Pleased. Neither was Naroko, but she at least is willing to bow to the inevitable and take advantage and control of a situation that's going to happen anyway. Cold? Yes. Questionable? Oh yes. There was a span of six months or so where Padme was refusing to speak to her because of this.
> 
> Also, finally an appearance of the other ship of this series, Obi-Wan and Padme!
> 
> Honestly, my favorite moment in this chapter is probably Vader levitating little objects to show his Zabrak interrogator how one of the Clone Wars space battles went. Space trashcan nerd <3


	14. Thirty-One Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up.

He's thirty-one years old, and he couldn't be happier.

He's been on Yavin for four months, and he's slowly making a place for himself. The Rebels are coming to accept him, little by little. It’s slow going, but it’s enough for him.

Mara hadn't been the only Kenobi clone Palpatine had issued. The analysts had dug into the data he'd brought them and found that there were three more batches from that line being made. His last task as 'Darth Vader' had been to take Ayliah and Ahsoka and his squad of clones to the watery planet and deal with the situation. He'd pretended he'd been tasked with transferring the two older batches, a group of nine mixed- sex clones about ten years of age, and a second group of ten, who looked to be about five or six, to another of Palpatine's facilities.

The third batch had still been growing, and the heartbreaking decision had been made to terminate them. The three of them had made the call together, though it was plainly hard on the pair of younger Jedi.

He'd agreed with them, and hated himself for the decision, but there was little choice. They just could not finish growing the fetal clones themselves, and they would not be able to return to Kamino later. The kindest thing, ultimately, was to not let them fall into the hands of Palpatine later on.

Ahsoka had been sure to destroy the sample of Obi-Wan's DNA that the Kaminoans had been using to grow the clones, so there was that, at least. Twenty-one copies of the Kenobi chin running around the galaxy was more than enough, in any case.

They'd gotten away clean. Word of his defection hadn't made it to Kamino yet, and the cloners hadn't dared defy Darth Vader when he'd shown up and started issuing orders. When they'd returned to Yavin IV, the young clones were separated into groups so they could be sent to one of a handful of hidden Jedi enclaves throughout the galaxy. He'd been surprised to learn of the enclaves. They had been formed, Obi-Wan had told him, from the scant handful of Jedi who'd escaped the Purge and the few survivors from the Jedi Service Corps they'd been able to track down. Shortly after Knightfall, Naroko and Ahsoka had managed to sneak into the ruined Jedi Temple and make off with a couple of Holocrons from what was left of the Archives and the Kyber crystal that contained a list of Force-sensitive children. The enclaves had been quietly tracking down some of those children, to protect and train them, for the last seven years.

He remembered that list, and the time when a bounty hunter had enacted a plot to steal it for the Sith. Palpatine had wanted that list very badly, but by the time anyone had cleared enough debris to get at the ruined Archives, it had been lost. He'd presumed it destroyed, but apparently he'd underestimated Naroko and Ahsoka.

Ahsoka.

He'd been overjoyed to learn she'd survived- and terrified to meet her. He'd expected her to hate him, much like Ayliah. Certainly she ought to.

She’d been angry when they’d spoken, and hurt, as he had thought. A lot of what he’d done was utterly unforgiveable, and she’d made that clear. But she’d slowly calmed down, and while she wouldn’t forgive him for certain things, like the attack on the Temple, she was willing to let him start mending their relationship.

She’d gotten so _tall_ in the last few years. She was quite easily as tall as he’d used to be, before his new prosthetics had added a handspan to his height. And her skills and powers had only grown with her, so much since the day she’d removed the string of beads that marked her Padawan status from her headdress, pressed them into his hand, and walked away from the Jedi Order. She’d found her place since then, working as an informant and operative for the Rebellion, accepting a Knighthood from the reformed Order, becoming a better person than he could ever have hoped.

He was so proud of his Snips.

After the matter of the young Kenobi clones had been settled, Naroko and Ayliah had finally gotten him into surgery for his lungs. Waking up after it, able to breathe on his own for the first time in a decade, had left him in tears. He was free of the suit, free of that cursed prison, and if not entirely free from pain than close enough.

Naroko’s face had been the first thing he’d seen when he’d woken up, and he’d thought it was about the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen after Padme.

That had been a few months ago. Now the healer was at work again on another, even more important task.

He watches as Obi-Wan fidgets.

This is something he’s never really seen before. Obi-Wan was always calm, under control, perfectly composed. He’s seen him face down the worst of what the Separatists had to throw at them without flinching. He’s seen Obi-Wan follow him on one of his insane plans with nothing more than an exasperated sigh.

Apparently, the incipient birth of his daughter is enough to fluster even Obi-Wan Kenobi.

_Can’t entirely blame him, the last time Padme gave birth was… bad._

He puts that thought out of his mind and reminds Obi-Wan that Padme is in the hands of Naroko Chiston, who by this point should be considered a real-life miracle worker.

Obi-Wan manages a weak laugh that drains some of his tension.

He sighs- and Force, he loves being able to do that without having to fight a respirator- and looks down at the twins, who have somehow managed to both claim his lap. Luke, he decides, is too comfortable snuggled up against his chest to bother trying to persuade him to move. Leia, though…

He nudges her and gestures towards Obi-Wan with a jerk of his chin. She looks from him to her uncle, nods, and climbs down to go over to the Jedi Master and hold out her arms in a silent demand to be picked up. Luke immediately sprawls a little to take advantage of the extra space.

Oh, how he _loves_ these two younglings. Holding Leia seems to calm his old master a little- or at least, he can’t fidget so much while he’s cuddling her. Obi-Wan gives him a crooked little smile that tells him he knows precisely what he’s trying to do, and he smiles back.

He reminds Obi-Wan that he’s served in the role of the twins’ father for years. He can handle anything his own child throws at him.

Obi-Wan is about to reply when they _all_ sense it, heads whipping around to gaze intently at the door.

In his lap, Luke beams.

“The baby’s here!” he exclaims, bouncing in excitement.

The next few minutes seem to stretch on for eternity. Leia has to poke Obi-Wan several times before he stops inadvertently squashing her, he’s holding her so tight. She finally makes him put her down and rejoins her brother.

At last the door opens and Naroko steps out, a tiny bundle in her arms. She beams at Obi-Wan and deposits his daughter in his arms.

Obi-Wan is stunned, looking like he’s forgotten how to breathe as he stares down at the tiny little scrap of humanity he’s now holding.

“Oh,” he whispers in awe.

“Yes, dear one,” Naroko says, eyes dancing. “She’s here. This is real.” She squeezes her friend’s shoulder and murmurs her congratulations.

Obi-Wan kneels, letting the twins gather around and greet their new half-sister. They’re as utterly enchanted as their uncle with the new arrival, Leia beaming and Luke cooing softly. Naroko drifts over, resting a hand on his upper arm, as always above the line where flesh met metal prosthetic.

He smiles softly, takes her hand, and murmurs thanks for seeing Obi-Wan’s and Padme’s new child safely into the world. She just smiles and leans against him for a moment, taking the chance to rest after overseeing the birth. Her colors and song are soft now, mostly in harmony with each other, and warm with the pleasure of turning her skills to such a wholly _good_ task.

He basks in her presence, quietly enjoying her company, until Obi-Wan finally extricates himself from the delighted twins and comes over to him. The lines around his eyes are deepened with smile.

“Vader,” he says, holding out his infant child so he can take her in his own arms. “I’d like you to meet my daughter.” The Jedi Master is radiating joy now, as he helps settle the tiny girl in his former student’s hold.

He peers down at the little girl. Like her father, like her half-siblings, she blazes in the Force, bright and pure and strong. She’s all wrinkly and red from the birth, with a bare little fuzz of dark hair that seems to have a reddish tint to it, and when she opens her eyes they prove to be a clear deep grey.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs. “What’s her name? You and Padme sort of have to decide now she’s here.”

Obi-Wan smiles wryly at that. “Padme settled on a name a couple days ago,” he says. “Her name is Ani.”

 _Ani_.

He thinks at first that he must have misheard, that surely they hadn’t named their daughter for him-

But when he looks up, Obi-Wan and Naroko are both smiling.

He stares at them, then at Ani, who seems to have decided that one set of arms is as good as another for falling asleep in, and has dozed off with her tiny mouth open.

He’s thirty-one years old. He’s fought wars. He’s Fallen, been called back to the Light. He’s torn the galaxy apart and now stood faced with the task of putting it back together again. There is still Palpatine to defeat, an Empire to tear down, and order to restore.

But right now, he’s home, he’s found his family again, and he’s happy.

And he smiles.

 

_Fin_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's gonna carry us to the end of this particular fic. Wanted to wrap this up on the sweetest, fluffiest note imagineable. 
> 
> So much for my trying to consistently post on Saturdays. Oops.
> 
> There's going to be plenty more content for the Black and Gold verse, so stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> So I got persuaded to put up this rather fluffy thing. I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> This fic is serving to fill in a lot of the background for [Storm on Yavin IV](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9624272), though that one takes place a loooong way down the line. This verse is being co-written by my lovely partner in crime DiaryofaWriter. Ask nice and she might post something for this verse too ;)
> 
> My fanfic can also be found on my [Tumblr](http://silvergryphon.tumblr.com/tagged/fanfic).


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